


Hell of a Plan

by Mapal



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e12 Prisoner's Dilemma, Episode: s02e13 Dead Reckoning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:32:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4896496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mapal/pseuds/Mapal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Harold Finch actually pulled off his plan?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Blame the people on Tumblr who gave me twitchy fingers. If you want this rating to be upped to explicit and the aftermath included, say so :P and maybe bribe me

He didn’t intend for this to happen – for him to go into the cabinet where John kept all his weapons, unlocked in the safety of the library, and start to contemplate which would be best for storming a prison and extracting a prisoner. Harold wasn’t even sure what he was holding in his hands right then, but it looked like it could blow a hole in a wall. It wasn’t even that he didn’t understand guns, because he did. He had made it a point to know a lot about a lot, but really he had never handled such heavy weapons built for so much damage.  
  
A helicopter had already been ordered, on standby and ready for the go ahead, and he had… a contact who was securing him a federal vehicle to get him inside the prison. What was the plan? He wasn’t sure. Somewhere in the confusion of papers and notes and blueprints pinned to his board there was something that could be called a plan.  
  
It was foolhardy, maybe, to go running into a prison and show his face like that, armed to the teeth and with only body armour protecting him, but deep down he knew Mr. Reese would do the same. In fact, he probably wouldn’t have left it so long, but Harold was being careful.  
  
He heard some noise about a new test for John and paused in debating between a shotgun and an assault rifle. Curiously, he moved towards his monitors, eyes darting over the screens and the security cameras he had accessed so far. He had managed to get the prison security feeds up not long ago to assess what he was going into, to keep an eye on Carter’s interrogation and Donnelly’s haphazard attempts to find his man, and to watch John.  
  
They were leading him towards the exercise yard where he had previously had an altercation with their old Aryan friends, and a hidden conversation with Elias. The prison was a boiling pot of people who wanted John dead. The final test that Donnelly spoke of was clear now. Finch sank down into his seat slowly, still holding a shotgun in his hand.  
  
This was a cruel test. And a pointless one. Any man trained as much as Donnelly theorised would know not to fight back, and any man not trained that highly would be beaten to a pulp anyway. There was no way out of this, only pain for John.  
  
Harold watched helplessly as the men closed in around John like a pack of wolves. He wished he could stop this with just a few taps at the keys, a few words into an earpiece, as usual, but there was nothing he could do but watch.  
  
He had watched John get into fights more times than he could count now. Normally he would effortlessly take down his opposition with a confident air, rarely rattled by what he faced, but this time Harold watched him stagger from one punch, and then another. Even on the security cameras, he could see the blood starting to pour from John’s nose.  
  
Like a useless god, he could see the fight from every angle. He could see where every merciless blow hit. He could see John crumble to the floor and curl up into a ball. It was the only way to prevent too much damage to his internal organs, the best thing he could do in such a situation. Never before had Harold seen John so small.  
  
His heart was in his throat, hot tears stinging at his eyes. His lungs were hardly working and he felt a wet nose against his hand as he tried to catch his breath. Instinctively, he tangled his fingers in Bear’s fur, trying to breathe before he passed out. A panic attack right now wasn’t productive. He had to be better than that. He had to be unflappable.  
  
Elias stepped into view on one of the cameras and the men stopped, and Finch finally let out a long, haggard breath. Maybe their ally was a little dubious, and maybe not even an ally, but he had good timing. Finch watched for movement from John, eyes fixed on the crumpled body. John rolled onto his back as guards came towards him to haul him up from the floor and back inside. He was alive, and had probably been through worse, but how much longer would he survive in a prison that wanted him dead?  
  
Donnelly was an animal. If John had been innocent, if Elias hadn’t stepped in, there would have been a dead body in the yard. Locking the guards out and throwing John to the guards was too much. The agent was insane. Harold found his terror and panic starting to be replaced by anger. People shouldn’t get to play with other peoples’ lives in such a way.  
  
He was still nervous, but his blood was boiling and nothing was going to stop him getting John out of there. All those times John had saved his life, it was time to repay the favour a little. He stood and grabbed the FBI body armour he had acquired, pulling it on with the jacket over the top. Just as he picked up the grenade launcher, a vital part in his plan, he heard a trilling in his ear and answered the phone to Detective Carter.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly on the other end of the line, “I thought I could guide Donnelly in another direction, but he didn’t bite. He won’t let John go yet.”  
  
“I thought as much, agent,” Harold answered as he packed the grenade launcher away into a bag along with a small selection of John’s guns. What was he even doing? He had no experience in this from the other end of things. All he was doing was working on the footage he had seen of John in action, the tactical discussions they had had, and the stories that John had told him from his time in the service. Harold was so desperately in over his head.  
  
“I believe I’m going to need your assistance to free Mr. Reese.”  
  
“I’ve already been giving you my assistance, or did you miss the hours I’ve spent with you in my ear while I interrogated your friend.” Finch paused and straightened.  
  
“I’m aware. Your help so far has been more than welcome, but I fear we have to take more extreme measures.” He heard a small sigh on the other end and could imagine her running her hand through her hair in exasperation.  
  
“What are your more extreme measures?”  
  
“I have a bag full of John’s more… volatile belongings and a stolen FBI van.” He was going to blow up the prison, in short, but he left that part out.  
  
“You’ve been spending too much time with John.”  
  
“You’re probably right, and I’d like to spend more time with him, Detective Carter. Please stay precisely where you are for the next hour.”  
  
Carter staying in one location was important. Harold wanted to know she was clear of the blast he was going to deliver to the North West corner of the prison to draw all, or at least most, of the guards in that direction. Controlling the uproar of prisoners trying to escape through the hole in the walls would be of great importance to them instead of the ones who were safely locked up on the East side.  
  
He had faked a prison transfer for an unsavoury looking character, a soldier-turned-criminal from their past who would gladly take $100,000 just to sit in the back of a van and then fuck some shit up in a prison. His not-FBI partner was another ‘friend’ of theirs on the same paycheck and with a grudge against one of the guards who beat his brother to death in his cell. Harold was good at leverage, and their financial loyalty to him meant no trouble as they rolled up to the prison in their stolen van. It wasn’t reported stolen yet, its usual occupants dirty agents who were enjoying a vacation somewhere nice right now.  
  
They drove right through the gates and onto prison grounds. Harold’s colleague disappeared from the passenger seat with his rucksack full of C4 just before they pulled up at the doors for prisoner intake. If they had their timings right, the explosion would go off just as Harold was checking in his charge. He guided the man towards the doors, past the armed guards, and into the prison.  
  
Carter was in a room on the corridor they walked down, the look of disbelief and exasperation evident on her face as she spotted Harold walking past with the prisoner and the guards. He knew she would follow, which was ideal. He would need her help getting further into the prison. He activated the program on his phone as they walked down the hall, cutting out the cameras for the next fifteen minutes with a rather nasty little virus, and they were about set to go.  
  
The blast was tremendous, shaking the ground beneath their feet and setting off a loud alarm nearly instantly. All the guards in the room jerked their hands to their guns in surprise and widened their eyes. And then chaos ensued. There was noise and rushing feet, most of the guards suddenly racing out of the room as their radios came alive with a cacophony of orders. Carter was yelling at a guard over the sound of the alarm, gesturing towards the fake prisoner. “We need to secure this prisoner, his intake can be done later,” she said with the sort of force that didn’t allow movement from her opposition. The guard was about to argue but the look on her face must have been terrifying.  
  
The guard led them into the prison through a locked gate, taking them towards the short term holding cells. Harold waited until they were on a corridor that was empty, all the guards having gone elsewhere to help with the chaos. It was now or never. Harold pulled the gun that had been holstered at his side, John’s high-powered Glock with the laser sight attached, and took aim at the legs of the guard. He didn’t want to kill anyone here, especially hard working guards, but he had no choice but to incapacitate them in an unfortunately painful way.  
  
The recoil hurt his shoulder and back but John had taught him how to properly brace to prevent any damage to himself. He let out a small groan of regret as he watched the guard fall to the floor. His back had been to him and Harold had to admit that was a pretty low move. “I’m really sorry,” Harold said with a small wince.  
  
“This is one hell of a plan,” Carter hissed to Harold as he relieved the guard of his keys and his gun. “Please tell me you turned the cameras off.”  
  
“It’s all in hand, detective,” Harold said unevenly, his voice a little shaky. He had just shot a guard. The things he would do for John Reese were apparently pretty violent. He turned to the cuffs on his prisoner, starting to unhook them. “You’ll be paid the rest of the amount by the end of the day, as agreed. It’s set up to go out automatically in case… this goes a little awry.”  
  
“You’re one crazy bastard,” the guy said with a hoarse chuckle, rubbing his wrists before giving them both a small salute and then disappearing up the corridor and into the prison.  
  
“I have to agree with him. Why are you doing this? You know John would probably get out eventually,” Carter said as they started to walk quickly towards the next gate that led into to the prison.  
  
“I’m not sure he would. A lot of people want him dead in here, including, I believe, your agent friend. I owe him many debts, the least I can do is free him from here before he meets any more harm.” He could feel Carter’s eyes on him and didn’t dare to look at her. He was aware this was very out of character for him and he didn’t want to see which sort of knowing look she was giving him.  
  
“If I didn’t know better-” she started, but Finch interrupted her quickly.  
  
“Please don’t finish that sentence.”  
  
They made their way through the prison, passing as a police officer and an FBI agent just joining in the attempt to get things settled back down. Prisoners were going crazy in their cells and there was a raucous in the exercise yard which was barely being contained. By the time they reached John’s cell, having knocked out another guard and unlocked it, things were nearly completely out of hand.  
  
“I was really hoping that wasn’t you,” John said softly as he spotted Carter and Harold at the door, laid on his bed listlessly. “Mr. Finch, did you just blow up a prison?”  
  
“Unfortunately, yes,” Harold answered with a growing lack of shame. Yes, he had just successfully pulled off a plot to blow up a prison. It was probably the most hardcore thing he had done in his life. “Come on, Mr. Reese, we don’t have much time.”  
  
John was pretty beat up, his face bloody and his overalls dirty. Harold just wanted to get him cleaned up and in a safe, warm place. He watched as the tall man stood from his bed, his usual air of unfazed confidence a little shaken but still holding in place. Harold imagined John hadn’t enjoyed being locked up in a small cell for days on end, interrogated and beaten whenever he was removed from it.  
  
He felt John’s hand on his shoulder as they left the cell, a gentle squeeze of thanks, and his familiar, warm presence behind him. Finally Harold could relax a little. He never felt safer than when John was around.  
  
As soon as John was informed there were no cameras for the next seven minutes, he didn’t hold back. He took out any guards that posed a threat to them with his bare hands, letting Harold keep the Glock for his own protection and letting Carter take up the rear. “I have more weapons in the van, in case we meet resistance from HR or whoever else might hold a grudge,” Harold called over the alarm that was still blaring out.  
  
“A good plan, Finch,” John said as he dropped another guard.  
  
They were almost there, so close to the exit and their van, when they ran into a familiar figure. Donnelly was looking a little ruffled, but like he had just found the holy grail. John froze, placing himself between his friends and Donnelly. “I knew it,” he said as he drew his weapon on them, a second gun in his other hand, probably from one of the knocked out guards. Harold fumbled with the gun in his hand, pressing it against John’s back gently. A strong, lean hand snaked back slowly to take the gun, fingers wrapping around the grip firmly, brushing against Harold’s in a gentle, comforting gesture.  
  
“Put your weapons on the floor, all of them,” Donnelly said firmly, one gun steadily aimed at John’s head and the other at Carter. Harold watched John’s fingers adjust their grip slowly in deliberation and then saw the resigned slump in John’s shoulders. The gun was pointedly aimed at his head. He wouldn’t be able to make a move before he was shot, and Carter would be taken out immediately after. Their best play for now was to go along with Donnelly’s orders.  
  
Carter followed John’s lead, lowering her gun to the ground. “Kick them over.” They both did as they were told. “I knew you’d come crawling out together. I saw it in your eyes, Carter. Genuine concern.” He kicked the guns further away to the side of the room. “And it looks like I have the boss as well.”  
  
Harold didn’t miss the way John but his body even more between him and Donnelly, offering the only protection he could without a gun. Harold was pretty sure he was meant to be the one saving John. “We’re gonna go for a ride. Turn around, hands behind your backs, except you, Detective Carter. You can cuff them.”  
  
They were cuffed, the guns trained on them steadily, and Harold looked up at John to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly as Carter bound his wrists. John shook his head slowly, a small half-smile creeping onto his face.  
  
“This isn’t over yet,” John murmured. “You did good, Finch.”  
  
“Now cuff yourself, Carter,” Donnelly ordered as he came closer and tossed Carter another pair of cuffs. She did as she was told, carefully keeping her mouth closed. Silence was her best defence right now.  
  
Donnelly followed them out of the prison to the van that Harold had acquired. The prison security was in the toilet, all the guards occupied with trying to control the riot that had started and the prisoners who had breached the walls. The agent pushing a few cuffed people into the back of a van went unnoticed.


	2. Chapter Two

The truck that came from nowhere and wiped them out was a little bit of a surprise. John felt it hit, felt the whole world start to spin, and immediately reached out to Finch to try to stop him from getting hurt too bad. He found his friend incredibly capable despite his injuries, but a crash like that could have made sure he never walked again. That was how John found himself launching over to Finch and wrapping his body around him as they went flying.

As they flipped through the air, time felt slow. John was vaguely aware of Carter protecting herself in her own way, as he had guessed. She had managed to grab hold of something to stop herself from being thrown around the van too much. John had managed to hook his arms around Finch despite the handcuffs and together they were rolled around the metal container.

When they finally came to a halt, the van was on its roof and there was the distinct smell of burning. John lifted his head a little to check on Finch. He was knocked out, blood coming from his temple, but otherwise he seemed unharmed. John had broken his fall, Finch’s light body resting on top of his own limply. Carter wasn’t far away, barely conscious but otherwise unharmed.

John wasn’t sure how hurt he was. He couldn’t feel any really abnormal pain, but that could be deceptive after such a shock. He knew he could barely move, his whole body aching and his head fuzzy, but he could wriggle his toes and his fingers if he tried really hard. He gently rolled to one side, slowly unhooking his bound arms from around Finch and tipping him off so he could get a better look at his condition. Then there was a loud bang, a gunshot, and he turned his head on his aching neck to see blood pouring from Donnelly’s skull in the driver seat. Shit. This was a planned hit.

He couldn’t get up to stop the threat. He was helpless. His brain was so foggy, his body starting to feel an incredible amount of pain, and all he could do was tip himself further so he was on top of Harold instead, shielding him.

In many ways, he was glad Finch was unconscious. He didn’t want his friend to be awake for this, to see him get shot in the skull and then maybe face the same fate himself. “Carter,” he wheezed, looking over his shoulder. She was already unconscious, limp in the corner of the van. He let out a tight breath and dropped his head down against Finch’s shoulder, breathing in the faint smell of his expensive aftershave. Normally it was stronger. He must have let his personal grooming slip a little the last few days. “Sorry,” he murmured gently as the back doors of the van were yanked open.

That wasn’t a face he had expected to see any time soon. He barely had a chance to recognise her before he was being rendered unconscious by a sharp sting in his neck. This wasn’t going to end well.

~*~*~

They were on a rooftop with a bomb strapped to his chest when it happened. Somehow Finch had saved his life yet again. John had never doubted his friend, but with five numbers to try and only three attempts he had maybe doubted the extent of their luck. In those tense minutes beforehand he had shared a dark little secret that had felt right to share, a last minute thank you for his life, and now they stood with a heavy silence between them.

Snow had exploded, unfortunately, and sirens were racing towards the scene from every angle, but up there on the roof it felt quiet. “What you said, when…” Finch started quietly, trailing off a little as he lifted his eyes from the bomb to meet John’s gaze.

“You defused a pretty big bomb in my life before,” John said calmly. He knew where the downwards spiral had been heading. With no purpose, no guidance, and no home he had been on a fast track to drinking himself to death or finding a large bottle of pills, or simply turning the nearest weapon onto himself. There were numerous ways he could have enacted his death wish, but Harold Finch had found him in time.

“I’m not sure I’m entirely responsible for your recovery,” Finch said quickly. John huffed and looked up to the starry sky briefly, smoke from the explosion curling up towards the heavens. When he looked back down, he reached out to gently place a hand on Finch’s shoulder, fingers curling against his jacket.

“I was one bad day away from being really dead. Thanks to you, I’m still alive. Even after a non-metaphorical bomb.” Finch looked like he was internally admitting something to himself, his shoulders relaxing and his eyes softening. John smiled a little and let his hand slide up a little, fingers brushing against skin.

This felt different to any time they had touched before. It was warm and calm and soft. John’s adrenaline was seeping from his body, but it was replaced with something that warmed him right to his toes. He hadn’t felt that in a long time.

“Mr. Reese-”

“John.”

He knew he was about to cross a line, a line where formal names wouldn’t be needed. Harold seemed to catch the jist of that pretty fast and swallowed hard. John had moved closer, his hand moving slowly to slip into the hairs on the back of Harold’s head. He leaned in, the distance so small and the air between them mingled with their breaths. John could feel Harold swaying a little closer to him, felt a hand on his hip beneath the vest, and took that as permission.

The first brush of their lips was tentative, a test, and John felt a sharp but pleasant prickle down his spine. When he pressed for a little more, Harold didn’t object, his own mouth parting a little to fit perfectly with John’s. It was glorious, a sensation he had been craving for so long, and John couldn’t help the small whine that escaped him like he had just taken a bite out of a perfect chocolate cake. Because it was perfect. It was warm and soft and steady. Despite his obvious nervousness, Harold offered the same sense of sureness and security he had been supplying for the last year or so of John’s life.

It wasn’t particularly intense in the needy sense, it wasn’t all tongues and hair grabbing, but John’s head was spinning when he finally pulled away. He let out a surprisingly shaky breath and then grinned, happy to see the same startled but pleased look on Harold’s face. He watched Harold steady himself for a moment and then clear his throat before he spoke, always composing himself before spilling his thoughts.

“I believe we should get that vest removed,” he started. A little mundane, John thought, but then he was continuing. “And then we should retire to the library. We have a lot to… talk about.”

“Don’t be so demure, Harold,” John said lowly, enjoying the way Harold seemed to shiver a little at the sound of his first name being spoken in such a way. John looked forward to continuing their discussion.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just write a 3,500 word long explicit chapter? Yes. Yes I did.
> 
> You're the best group of fans I've ever socialised with, I think. Already your comments and your feedback have made me feel so good ;-; I hope this meets your expectations.
> 
> Recommended Listening: Oh Wonder - Technicolor Beat https://open.spotify.com/track/2NAZMBtqbGeUj7fhFr86jJ

John didn’t really have much of a personal life, and any that he did have was probably closely watched by Harold. The last time he had had sex had been three weeks ago, after a particularly hair-raising job involving a pretty young man with large hazel eyes. John wasn’t picky, really. If someone attractive offered him a pleasurable night then he tended to take it, but he found himself never really actively seeking it out.

The man he had fucked rather vigorously on a hotel bed was memorable to him, but probably not for the right reasons. It had been a test. John had wanted to see just how much of his life Harold watched. He had gone back to the hotel room he had been using on his cover with the young man, and claimed him in plain view of the camera that had been set up for surveillance earlier.

Oh boy had Harold been watching. He had looked incredibly ruffled when John had returned to the library after checking out of the hotel, and hadn’t looked him in the eye for four days straight. Some might have taken that reaction for disgust, but the flush in Harold’s cheeks and the way he kept his lap covered with an open file when John returned from the hotel said it all.

Nothing much had really happened between Harold and himself since, but then John had faced prison and near death by explosives and now here they were, on the couch in the library as the city slumbered beyond the windows.

“Bear’s watching,” Harold whispered quietly where he was pinned gently beneath John’s hands. John lifted his head from sucking a mark onto Harold’s collarbone to look at the dog, his large, brown eyes staring at them through the darkness.

“I thought you liked voyeurism, Harold,” John murmured, looking down as Harold flushed bright red, clear even in the pale light from a nearby streetlight. “What, you thought I didn’t know? You didn’t hire me to be blind.”

“That was different,” Harold protested, “this is uncomfortable.” John grinned a little and then looked back to Bear.

“Bear, wacht,” he said firmly with a motion to the entrance to the library. Bear stood from his bed and trotted towards the locked trellis gate obediently, sitting himself there instead, ears perked forwards in high alert. “Better?” Harold sighed and nodded, adjusting a little on the couch they were sprawled out on.

John had tried to keep him comfortable for what was coming, moving the cushions that had been scattered around to pad out the space under Harold’s back, but now he was settled there between Harold’s legs he was worried about this. “Are you sure it doesn’t hurt?”

“It hurts all the time,” he answered quietly as he started to unbutton John’s shirt. They hadn’t even gotten undressed yet, so lost in kisses and small touched to really go much further. None of it was frantic or rushed, the kind of desperate passion John was used to. It was a slow burning sensation, building slowly between them.

They had had the bomb defused and removed, handed it over to Carter to dispose of in her own way, and then made their way home after a long night. During all that time, from the rooftop to here, there had been no overwhelming sense of need and want, no urge to just pin Harold down and take him on the back seat of the car. At first it had puzzled John, but it made sense to him now. Harold kept him so grounded, so calm and centred, that he didn’t feel any need to rush this. Now it was somewhere near 3am but he didn’t feel tired at all, his whole body consumed by the heavy warmth that had settled in him. Still, this didn’t need to be done now. They could wait for some more appropriate time.

“Maybe it would be better on a bed,” John said as he lifted a hand to gently grab Harold’s wrist and stop him from unbuttoning his shirt. Harold was more than capable at most things, other than tailing people around New York all day, but the last thing John wanted to do was hurt him. He did enough hurting every day; he just couldn’t do it to Harold in any way.

“Maybe next time.” Next time. Those words made John’s stomach flutter. Harold continued with the buttons until the shirt was completely unfastened. John inwardly winced a little. He might have been in a fit shape, but he was scar riddled and still bruised from his time in the prison. Normally he wouldn’t care. He had been in bed with a lot of people and they found it hot, but with Harold he didn’t want to disappoint in the slightest. He felt a hand slowly trace over one of the bruises, and then a long scar that went down his side.

His head was bowed, gaze fixed firmly on Harold’s chest, as that hand explored him ever so gently. Trust Harold to not think any less of the scars. He had never really cared what battered and bruised state John had been in, never looked down on him for his wounds. From the gunshot and stab wound scars to the deep, internal, mental scars and his previous alcoholism, Harold had accepted the whole parcel.

“I had a different expectation of this,” Harold said quietly, “after… watching.”

“Are you disappointed?” John finally lifted his gaze back up to look at him. There was no look of disappointment on Harold’s face, just a calm contentment.

“Not at all. I don’t mind either way. This is probably a little more comfortable for me, though. Being thrown face first onto a bed does seem rather…” Yeah that probably would have hurt him. John didn’t want to bury Harold’s face in a pillow to hide his groans, moans, and screams. He didn’t want some quick fuck and a hasty escape after.

They were taking their time, and he liked it. They had even planned somewhat, a pair of condoms and a small bottle of lube on the floor beside the couch. It was nice for something to feel like it was supposed to be happening. He lowered his head again to kiss Harold, felt a pair of hands slide up under his opened shirt to roam over his back.

He had already stripped Harold of his jacket and tie, and had unbuttoned his shirt enough to access his collarbone, and now his hand started work on the waistcoat buttons. Harold was the one to stop things this time, hand seemingly involuntarily flying to stop John’s. “What is it?” John asked softly, breaking away from the kiss for a moment.

“I’m not… are you sure about this?” That gaze seemed sincere and worried, eyes a little owlish. “I’m not exactly… your usual type.”

“What’s my usual type?” John purposefully kept unbuttoning the waistcoat, and then immediately started on the shirt beneath. As soon as he had the shirt opened, he slipped a hand gently beneath it, fingers trailing up Harold’s side. He watched Harold’s eyes close, felt the gentle exhale of air, and smiled a little. He usually took what was offered to him and, if he was honest, people like Harold rarely came up to him. It was those with confidence, with the good looks and the preened hair, who approached him. People who didn’t think like Harold did, that a man like John wouldn’t want to spend quality time with them.

“I don’t really have a type that I like to fuck,” he mused quietly, hand sliding down over Harold’s ribs and stomach, pausing at his belt. “The ones who pick me up don’t usually have much going on underneath.” Let’s face it; he had never been with anyone with a brain like Harold’s. Maybe that was part of the problem. He leaned down slowly until his mouth was close to Harold’s ear, his breath ghosting across the skin there softly. “Stop thinking.”

Harold let out a helpless whine and John knew he was finally getting somewhere. He pushed the shirt from his own shoulders, shedding it on the floor, and then dove back in for another kiss as Harold’s hands gripped at the skin on his shoulder blades. He pulled Harold up into a sitting position so he could keep kissing him as he rid him of his waistcoat and shirt, throwing them on the floor with his own.

His hands spread across Harold’s back, fingers pressing lightly into the skin there as he felt the subtle roll of hips against his own, a hardness pressing against his stomach briefly. He was hard, too, but not in the kinda-teenage way he had been expecting if things ever got hot and heavy with Harold. He wasn’t leaking all over and trying to grind against his partner’s thigh. So far he was very composed.

His fingers felt the change in skin on Harold’s side, the switch from healthy to previously burned and healed areas. He could also feel the incision scars down his spine, and the plates beneath the skin. He didn’t pry. He had never pushed for such information and knew that Harold would speak of it in his own time. The nature of what he had created and the lengths at which people would go to keep it secret was enough of an explanation.

Hands were on his belt, unfastening it in a determined, slow, and teasing fashion. The belt hit the floor with a thud and Harold’s followed soon after. John laid Harold back again, fingers working at the buttons of Harold’s pants as he place soft kisses up under his jaw. The kisses trailed lower as he hooked his fingers into the waistbands of both the pants and the modest grey briefs beneath and started to ease them down.

John could feel Harold’s breath fluttering in his chest beneath his mouth as he moved down the centre of Harold’s ribcage, looking up at him through his lashes to check his response. Harold’s head was resting back against the cushions, eyes closed as he let John work, a hand tangled gently in John’s hair.

He was of average length and thickness, a comfortable size that was neither too big nor too small, and John appreciated that as his mouth reached the lines of Harold’s hips. He adjusted for a moment, dropping the pants and underwear onto the floor, and then smoothed his hands up Harold’s thighs slowly. He enjoyed the full-body tremble that went through Harold, his knees drawing up on either side of John. He let his breath ghost over the erect length, felt the shudder beneath his fingers where he pressed his hands against Harold’s hips, and then leisurely ran his tongue up from the bottom to the tip.

The long, low whine that escaped Harold made John own arousal twitch and he sucked the tip into his mouth to provoke the reaction further. A hand flew to his hair, gripping tight, as he took more into his mouth and teasingly used his tongue beneath the head to make Harold buck right up into his hands. “John,” Harold said in a shaky voice, warning lacing his tone. “I haven’t had time to- oh Lord.” He broke his sentence as John swallowed nearly his entire length and then slid back up with his tongue pressing along the bottom of the shaft firmly.

“It’s been a long time since I… since I did anything. At all,” he managed to pant out. John got the message. Harold would last all of five seconds if he carried on. John didn’t want the fun to be over quite yet, and neither did Harold, it seemed.

John probably wouldn’t last much longer, if he was honest, but he wanted to do more than just a quick, messy blow job. He removed his mouth and slowly crawled back up Harold’s body, pleased to see him looking flushed and breathless. “You want more?” John asked, freeing himself of his own pants and boxers before he settled properly between Harold’s legs again, propped up on his arms above his body.

“I thought that’s what was happening here,” Harold breathed. “More.”

John gave a small shrug at that and smiled. More it was. He reached down to the side of the couch to retrieve a condom, effortlessly tearing it open before he sat back to slide it on. Next, he plucked the lube from the floor and squeezed some onto his hand, watching Harold’s face as his every movement was tracked with laser sharp focus.

He slicked up the fingers of one hand and then settled back down over Harold, pressing his lips under Harold’s jaw as he nudged his legs further open gently with his hand. There was a shaky breath of anticipation beneath him but no resistance as he teased and then slipped one finger inside. Harold let out a low groan and pressed his fingers against the back of John’s neck, head resting back to allow him access to his throat.

Despite all the ways he dominated and controlled John’s life, keeping him on track and sane, Harold seemed more than willing to bare all here and let John take over. The young man in the hotel had been needy and desperate, begging for it before he was even ready, but John was determined to take his time here and prepare Harold properly.

He worked with one finger for a few minutes with his mouth sucking small, possessive marks onto Harold’s collarbone and throat. Only when he felt his partner relax did he gently slide another finger in. Harold had been reduced to soft, breathy noises, but at the extra stretch he moaned heavily. John pressed their lips together, swallowing the desperate noises that Harold was suddenly producing. Patience, patience. 

He teased with his fingers, pressing up against that sweet spot inside that made Harold buck his hips up sharply, and then gently scissored them apart to provide more stretch. He felt the sharp intake of air against his mouth and let Harold drop his head back again. “John,” he said lowly. Was that an edge of warning on his voice? John smirked a little and repeated the motion inside Harold, making him claw at his back.

“What?”

“Haven’t you… done enough yet?” Harold was looking pretty flushed, eyes a little glassy, and John could only think that was a good look on him. He also felt pretty relaxed, but…

“I’m enjoying this,” he said simply, doing the thing with his fingers again and making Harold writhe a little.

“I can tell, but you might… enjoy doing something else… more.” He closed his eyes and moaned again, high-pitched and breathy as John curled his fingers and trailed them down the soft wall inside.

“Probably.” Hadn’t Harold learned yet that John had an asshole mode that had no off-switch?

Harold let out an exasperated groan that elevated into one of pleasure and John watched him smugly as he slowly took him apart. So maybe he wanted to get on with it, too, but he was always capable of putting his wants and needs aside just to piss someone off a little.

He drew his fingers out, satisfied with his work, and watched Harold’s chest rise and fall quickly as he tried to catch his breath. John reached for the lube again, slicked up the rock hard boner he had been sporting for quite some time now, and then settled over Harold once more. “Y’know, maybe next time I will just fuck you right into a mattress,” he mused gently as he teased with the blunt end of his erection against the waiting entrance.

Harold let out a helpless noise, looking at John in that way that said ‘pleasejustdosomething’. How could he resist those imploring eyes and those hands that were trying to drag his hips in closer? He pressed in slowly, breaching the opening and then sliding in inch by slow inch. Harold let out a long breath and only tensed for a brief minute before he relaxed, his body warm and inviting. “Okay?” John asked quietly when he was halfway in, his hands planted either side of Harold’s shoulders.

“Stop worrying,” Harold huffed, one of his hands dragging John forcefully in further, “you make me walk all over New York with no concern but you won’t just… fuck me.”

John paused and raised one eyebrow, that smirk tugging at his lips again. Harold was becoming positively vulgar. He was wrong, of course. John was always concerned. The subtle command to just throw caution to the wind and get on with it, however, was one he could obey. He lowered his mouth against Harold’s ear again, nipping at it lightly before he spoke. “As you wish.”

He felt the full body shiver beneath him, around him, and then started to move. He rocked shallowly just a few times until he was buried all the way inside, and then drew out nearly to the tip before driving in firmly again. He guessed that was exactly what Harold wanted as tidy, short nails dug into his back, legs wrapped firmly around his hips, and a sharp gasp filled the room.

Yeah, yeah, enough waiting. There was no pause between him seating himself fully again and drawing his full length back out. He picked a merciless pace from the get go, reaching down with one hand to hitch Harold’s hips just a little higher off the cushions so he could aim right for the prostate. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, and there it was.

The high pitched cry and the scramble at his shoulder blades said he had just hit it, and he drove against it again. Being who he was, doing what he did, meant he needed a great understanding of the human body and how to take it apart, how to find its weak spots. One of the things he had picked up along the way, not necessarily in the art of killing people, was how to find that sweet spot that’d make a guy leak and beg for more.

He believed it was a lady doctor in Boston who had once told him that she had made guys crumble to the floor during prostate exams. She had shown him just how effective it was. It had been one hell of an adventure, and a useful one. Harold was incoherent, clinging onto John and writhing beneath him as milky liquid started to leak from the tip of his dick and his breathing became tight and shallow.

If they started doing this regularly, John would attempt to make him orgasm without touching him but in this case he wasn’t going to last long himself, those breathy noises and long moans driving him crazy, the fluttering tensing and relaxing of Harold’s body around his erection pulling him closer and closer to the edge.

He dropped Harold’s hips, chose to lose the angle for now, and moved his hand to start stroking his partner’s length in time with his own smooth, quick motions. He had teased Harold enough that it only took a few strokes to tip him over, making him spill all over his own stomach and chest, the sudden tightness and the low groan of release finishing John off too. Embarrassingly fast. With a loud cry that he had to muffle against Harold’s neck.

“Ah, fuck,” he grumbled to himself, head buried against Harold’s shoulder as he felt himself twitch, the last of his release seeping out. “Sorry.”

There was a small pause before a hand settled warmly and softly against the back of his neck. “For what?” He could feel the quickened in and out of Harold’s breath, the light sheen of sweat on his skin, and the thighs that were still wrapped around his hips. John collapsed slowly, and gently, until he was laid on top of Harold, slipping out of him at the same time.

“I normally last longer, I just-”

“Stop.” That was all Harold said as his fingers carded up into John’s hair. “It was good. Better than good.”

John let out a small huff but didn’t protest, reaching down to remove the condom and drop it at the side of the couch before he settled more comfortably on top of Harold. His other arm was wrapped around John’s shoulders, secure and firm. “Next time I’m sure it will be even better,” Harold murmured, lowering his legs until they tangled easily with John’s.

So there was still a next time. John felt a small wave of relief and closed his eyes with a long sigh. He felt he could fall asleep there, warm and safe and comfortable. Just for a while he didn’t care if maybe he was slightly crushing Harold, because the arms wrapped around him and the stable warmth beneath him were what he had been craving for so long.


End file.
